


this is a house of horrors

by scullay



Category: Cow Chop, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Fake AH Crew, Fake Chop, Gen, Violence, but mostly enemies, cow chop gang fighting fake ah gang, funhaus eventually, they're frenemies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-12-11 10:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullay/pseuds/scullay
Summary: hard-core moments in the bad-ass lives of the notorious fake gta au gangs (who all conveniently live in los angeles because the weather's nice and crime rates are higher than ever)





	1. james stabs michael

**Author's Note:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

the first time james stabs michael, he feels a little scared. he wouldn’t tell anyone this, of course, because he had a reputation and a face and a name and myths surrounded his very presence. at the time, he felt no guilt or fear. at the time, he’d felt only fury and inescapable hatred.

“think you can fuck my friends?” james had snapped as his jaw snapped upwards under the brute punch of michael's brass knuckles. he didn’t even know what he was saying, only that he was angry and pent-up with revenge and unsatiated anger and michael’s smug face was just _there_.

“i think i can do more than fuck your friends,” michael had grumbled, strangled and choked with james’ hand around his throat, knee into his groin, tiny blade held tight in his grip. it hadn’t pierced then, because michael’s iron grip held him back. two immoveable objects each with wills of diamond.

“asshole,” james spat as michael rolled them over and stood, lurching a kick against james’ stomach and then aimed another at his face before james rolled over and the boot caught his bruised shoulder. his back was a weakness, but he made sure no one knew that.

michael had laughed and james stood, swinging. while michael cackled, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, james used his weight as an advantage and swung his arm back, tiny knife wedged between his fingers.

and he stabbed michael in the side. it wasn’t a killing blow, but it went deep and it stunned the other man, his hands faltering and face going a little ashy. victory chewed at james and he grinned, blood dripping from his teeth and nose, and dug the blade deeper.

“let your animals touch any one of my friends again, and i’ll do worse than this.” he slipped his hand away, letting michael falter and stumble. he had enough consciousness to let his face twist and transform, going red and angry and amused before he tripped on his own feet and went tumbling down the cement stairs.

so after the red haze has blown from his eyes and he can think rationally, james is a little scared of what michael and his crew will do next. james had thought in advance, of course, about what would happen if he killed a member of the opposing crew, but his stomach still twists in anticipation. he’s scared and excited and anxious and a little overjoyed too.

he gets a text from an unknown number saying, _killed the bastard that rebelled. ur lucky i didn’t die_. and he relaxes just a little. he would definitely stab the guy again.

without a doubt.


	2. aleks gets shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

brett snaps out a hand and puts it on aleks’ shoulder and only geoff sees it. no one else can possibly understand what that move means, but geoff does because he is old and tired and he’s cared for a lot of people in his lifetime. maybe someone else can understand what that hand gesture means in a moment like this, but geoff has had first-hand experience with keeping care of adult children and he _understands that gesture_.

aleks shakes brett off without a word and as far away as he is, geoff can almost hear the loud, exasperated sigh brett lets out. he looks around for his other crewmates ( _children_ ), giving away more than he should've in a delicate moment like that. geoff watches aleks storm forward, pure rage written into the confines of his face and lean frame and he watches brett run a hand over his head before murmuring something into his walkie and disappearing from geoff’s line of sight.

and because geoff understands what that hand gesture means, he whispers to jeremy, “shoot the russian.”

(it’s been a long time since he’s met another old man like himself. it’s been a long time since he’s started a war.)

so jeremy, without a whisper of hesitation, draws in a long deep breath and sets his sights into alignment and lets out his breath in the same moment he pulls the trigger. geoff calls orders to michael and gavin, ryan and jack, and watches red spread across aleks’ right shoulder, seeping across his shirt and dripping onto the cement beneath his feet.

he doesn’t have to be hitched into the other crew’s frequency to hear brett’s screams of fury and anguish. he blinks away jeremy’s unsure look, looks away from michael’s hiss of frustration. he sees aleks’ blood soaked body laying prone in the middle of the street and feels victorious. he feels a little bad, too, just a little sore at the very centre of his chest, but his face alights in a grin.

brett’ll understand now that weaknesses were meant to be secret. it didn’t matter how outright and unsubtle they were. brett was going to learn what it felt like to lose someone special to you. he was going to learn what it felt like to have your heart lain bare and exposed, open to the firing squad. if geoff was being honest, he’d say he was teaching brett a valuable lesson.

_don’t care_. as simple as that.

 

 


	3. anna tricks ryan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

the teller is shy and quiet and has her light brown hair tied back in a pretty straight ponytail that swings behind her head like a pendulum. ryan listens to the chilly sounds of michael barking out orders to the others, screaming for their attention and participation and clean execution, but ryan watches the pretty shy teller quake in her heels.

his gun is held aloft and steady and her hands stiffen in the air like spread stars. he watches from behind his mask, eyeing her shuddering red mouth and wide, watery eyes and his hands clench, tightening. michael stalks down the aisle of her fellow tellers, bag held out for their easy reach and deposit and ryan watches this one, something about her shifting something in the centre of his chest.

“register, money, bag. seamless,” michael says to her and ryan steps forward, steps slow and methodic. in the background, geoff and gavin work the vault and treyco and matt are solid statues on the counters, guns aimed like beacons on the shuddering customers. somewhere, jeremy arrives with the armoured truck and somewhere, jack cackles over the radio, and somewhere, ryan’s mind wanders.

the teller’s hands are steady when she shuffles through the register and she bites her lip when she drops her fistful of bills into the bag and michael moves on, thanking her with a mocking flourish. ryan stays steady, and for the first time, her eyes flicker up and meet his.

(he realizes his mistake too late.)

_there’s a barricade_ , jeremy whispers from the comm in his ear, and gavin curses and calls, _it’s empty!_ and treyco is the first to twitch, shifting on his feet, dropping his attention for less than a second. ryan feels the air collect and tighten and he watches the pretty teller’s eyes twitch and her hands drops and her lips curve upward.

ryan pulls the trigger and that was his next mistake. she dodges, two steps ahead of him, and matt spins, machine gun heated and high, and a teller down the line flicks the emergency button and michael screams for attention and that’s when the lights drop, secluding everyone in dead darkness.

he moves but he is too slow and takes her blow right in the chest. the armour helps lessen the pain, but her next jab takes his throat, right in the weakness below the mask and above his collar. he’s faster than her before she can rip the gun from his hands but she’s too close now to use it, so he swings it in the dark, aiming for her head and gets a beautiful thud in return.

except it’s not a woman’s grunt that leaves his mark’s mouth, but a man’s. michael’s. ryan spins again, shielding michael’s breathlessness behind him and blinks in the dark while the emergency lights flicker and sputter on. he can see the customers, ducking and screaming, and he can see treyco and matt shooting periodically into the suffocating dark. but it’s all futile, because the attack has already happened. ryan thinks—

“i thought you were the best,” a voice snakes through his mask, up his neck and into his ear and he doesn’t spin this time. he steps forward and ducks, her knife swiping through the air with an audible hiss. ryan smirks. he knew there was something—

“over here,” her voice whispers and he throws his elbow out in the opposite direction, and gets a grateful grunt that is distinctly feminine. he grabs, kicking out his leg, but meets air.

it’s a silent dance for what feels like a moment. he ducks and dodges her attacks and feels for his own jabs, her silky darkness twisting and twirling in and out of his view. he considers removing the mask. he actually considers taking it off so he can properly see her and give her his entire full force.

and then she takes it off for him. “make-up underneath a mask? edgy.” she stands in front of him, dangling the mask, and he barks out a scoff, blood dripping from his lips and breath coming in pants.

“i’m gonna want that back.”

“here,” she throws it, classic distraction, but no attack comes his way. he step-sides, back steps, ducks and spins but she is no where. and then he looks up.

(the vault was empty the entire time and she was a ploy and for a moment, he wants her. he wants to fight her unlike he’s wanted to fight anyone before and the need stretches beyond his and his crew’s anger. geoff notices his silence and says, “i never pegged you for one to be distracted by a pretty face,” even though he knows there wasn’t a distracted bone in ryan’s body.

ryan doesn’t want to kill her, per se.

not yet, at least.)


	4. fake ah kidnaps aleks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

once, geoff’s crew kidnapped one of james’ crew members and its never happened again.

aleks is drunk and that should be the start to a silly story with a silly ending, but he’s drunk and someone clomps him on the back of the head and he goes down like a sack of bricks. he collapses onto his side, arms sprawled and spread, and ryan almost wants to just let the poor bastard go.

but he brings him back and geoff claps him on the back and michael chitters in laughter and jack stands with his arms crossed over his barrel chest and looks on impassively and ryan wonders what will happen next. he wonders who will get stabbed. he wonders if any of his friends will die.

they let aleks wake up on his own and when he does, he grumbles sorely, “dude. what the hell.”

“you’re a pretty easy catch,” michael says, and remembers all the times he’s been punched in the face by james wilson jr. he looks at aleks, james wilson jr.’s closest and best friend, and sees someone he wants to punch in the face so hard james wilson jr. can feel it.

aleks stares deadpan back. he imagines ripping their spines from their assholes. he imagines his unattended drink, he imagines his friends left at the bar, he imagines all the drinks he’ll have to drink again to get that buzz back. he’d have thought this crew would have some semblance of respect for a man’s buzz.

“i seriously can’t picture how in god’s name you’ve screwed us over so many times,” geoff freely admits, “you’re partying in a bar like an asshole and when you go to take a piss, you don’t even check your surroundings. how fucking old are you, kid?”

aleks doesn’t say anything. he shifts his hips, getting more comfortable in the wooden chair he’s tied to. he relaxes his feet on the cement ground, rubs his numbing fingers behind his back and licks his dry lips. looking around, he sees michael, geoff, ryan and jack and wonders how fucking old _they_ are.

“i think you broke him,” michael mocks, stepping forward to pinch aleks’ cheek. he jerks back and forth, bending close to the other man’s pale face to smirk maliciously across at him. michael sees no hint of james wilson jr. in his friend’s face but still transforms his smirk into a sneer anyways.

he lets go of aleks’ cheek and punches it. the smack ricochets in the cold cement surrounding and michael stands back to appraise his one-hit work. aleks’ head had been thrown to the side, an instant reddened bruise blistering across his cheekbone from the impact. they watch as he exercises his jaw, tongue slipping out to prod his lips.

and then he turns back and stares up at michael. deadpan.

“i didn’t hit him that hard,” ryan grumbles, sliding from the shadows with a whisper to stand at aleks’ right. his mask hides his expression, but michael wonders if aleks can feel the trace of ryan’s eyes go along his shoulders and throat and face, itching.

he lifts a finger and pokes the bump at the back of aleks’ head. a shadow of pain crosses his eyes but disappears quick. ryan digs deeper, knuckle grinding harder into the severe bump that was sure to give a concussion to someone who’d never experienced a concussion before. but aleks was awake and aware and wholly conscious.

“maybe we need to wake him up,” michael grins, feral, and cracks his knuckles. and then ryan lets go of aleks’ bump and michael steps back, preparing to swing, and aleks lets him. he stretches his chin upward, exposing throat and opposite cheek.

and then he grins.

“asshole,” michael growls and throws the punch. and then again, and again, and again until ryan has to brace aleks in the chair to prevent him from falling over from the force of the hits. and then michael keeps punching; harder and harder, faster and faster, until his knuckles are spilt and bleeding, their blood mingling and mixing.

and aleks doesn’t stop grinning.

he loses a tooth. his left eye is swollen shut, lips cracked and gushing blood, and there is not a spot of his face that is not red and swollen and blue and black with bruise. his fingernails leave crescents in his palms and he can never get that blood out of his spotless white laces and his face will have scars.

so aleks starts laughing.

the cackles lift and rise and ricochet, bouncing around the hot, sweaty cement underground room. it sounds like music to jack, who hadn’t moved an inch since the first punch was thrown. jagged, misshapen, hard-worn and cracked laughter splinters through the air and michael stands back, fists bloody and worn and ryan slowly draws his hands away.

aleks closes his eyes and laughs, head titled back and knees braced apart and fingers finally spreading wide. he laughs, a pretty and deep laugh, and for a millisecond, ryan thinks one of them is going to die. the warm room chills and the only sound is a young man’s laughter.

it goes on and on and on and on and—

michael slaps him, the sting ringing across his palm like a thousand bites. he looms above the now silent aleks, whose face scrunches into a tiny grin.

“fucking moron—“

aleks yawns.

geoff strides forward to reach for michael but his anger is tangible. he roars—the sound diminishes the laughter—and kicks out the legs of the chair so aleks tumbles onto his side. and michael kicks, wrenching out of geoff’s grip and he kicks, aiming for face and stomach and groin and kneecaps.

michael hopes james will feel this. he certainly will.

“stop,” geoff hisses while jack wrenches him away, arms clasped behind his back. michael jerks and kicks and hisses and spits and geoff just looks at him with an unimpressed look and says, “you’ve made another enemy.”

“ay, d-don’t stop on my account,” aleks whispers in the heaving quiet. he giggles, sprawled on his side in broken wood and thick blood, and stares up at geoff. “let your bitch loose, old man.”

and the old man lets his bitch loose.

(a nurse at the hospital gasps but aleks, limping and holding in his innards, chuckles.)


	5. a house burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

a small house in los angeles burns.

asher holds anna’s hand, their fingers tangled and broken around the other, blood matting their fingernails and flesh. they stand across the street, watching the cinders burn and climb up the shoddy one-story home walls. they watch the roof collapse down like a deflating balloon. they watch the glass explode and doors melt.

“james won’t be happy,” anna says, cocking her head. in her other hand, she holds a matchbox. in asher’s other hand, he holds an empty canister of gasoline. they’re going to have to move in a few minutes, but for now, they watch the house collapse. they watch their handiwork come full circle.

even though they aren’t known for fire. everyone was _known for fire_ but anna had a very wide-range of skill-sets that dabbled in fire but did not utterly retain to fire. they collectively knew one person, in their group, who was known more so for fire, but she nor asher was that person. but still, they lingered on the edge of the sidewalk, across the street from the raging inferno across from them because they’d set _this_ fire, and this fire quietly sizzled and burned, popping in the night.

“brett will bench us for a month,” asher agrees, fingers tightening around hers. he is a little scared, but he was always a little scared. he ate bullets for breakfast and picked at cyanide for lunch and had intestines for dinner and spared revenge for dessert. he was a little scared, but it was always good to be a little scared.

(scared protected you. scared made you use your senses so you could watch for the monster in the dark from all angles, fear collecting and bubbling deep inside. asher was afraid, and he knew that being afraid was a danger and a security. scared protected him, even if it reminded him of all the times being scared had killed him.)

they are quiet, because they know james won’t find out from them and they know brett will bench them, but they won’t listen. the fire burns quick and fast and they have to put elbows to their mouths to stifle the heat. but they don’t walk away. they watch the house burn.

“do you think they’ll get it?”

“'home is where the heart is.' i don’t know, it’s kind of advanced for them.”

anna curses and asher chuckles. the heat finally becomes too much, the smoke taking the air like a hug, the sirens in the distance wailing and crying for attention. so they detach their hands and stretch their fingers and walk down the alleyway. asher thinks about donuts, and anna thinks about alcohol.

the house burns to the ground and the news calls it an obvious case of arson, and james snaps his head to anna, who yawns. the house belonged to no one, the news will say, and brett will stand tall and firm and tell them they were reckless and ignorant and foolish and _childish_. he’ll bench them, body shaking, and aleks will blink up at them, smirking (in pride).

a safe house is not a safe house when your people live there, collect there, learn to love its edges and corners, the broken faucet and flickering lightbulb. then, it’s not a safe house, but a safe _home_.

and that was just asking for burning.


	6. trevor says hi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

“you—“ he punches the hard flesh of a lean abdomen.

“—can—“ he catches him before he can fall and wrenches up his collar with a clawed hand.

“—go—“ another punch, to the chest, leaving him winded. another hit, to the groin, which sends him sagging again if not thanks to the helpful hand at his throat. another hit, to the jaw.

“—fuck—“ he finally lets him drop, heavy and sodden, to the pavement of the empty parking lot. his car sits, rumbling and purring, at his bloodied head and he stretches a hand towards it, hope clinging to his skin. but the man above him doesn’t let him get more than an inch.

“—your—“ he speaks slow and calm, each movement punctured with a kick to the stomach.

“—mother.” trevor finishes and stomps his heel down hard overtop gavin’s clawing hand. “was that too harsh? here—“ he grabs gavin’s coat and heaves him to a stand, effortless and smooth. the gangly limped man scrambles for footing. “—i can try it again.

“you—“ a punch to the stomach that throws him, head smashing against the tail pipe of his fancy, smooth gold car. trevor inches closer, sneakers slapping through puddles.

“—can—“ he kicks, hard, into gavin’s back. he arches his spine, a cruel cry slipping past clenched teeth. trevor barks out a laugh in surprise and lurches forward for another well-aimed kick to the back. his spine arches again, his next cry sharper than the last.

“—go—“ trevor crouches, eyeing the face of the man who grinned into the mouths of guns and sang tales of immortality. gavin turns and peers at the younger man. and then he spits, blood and spit collecting together on trevor’s knee.

“—to—“ trevor punches, hard, his fist slamming into gavin’s larger than life nose.

“—hell.” he finishes, hand wrapped around his shoulder to wrench him onto his back again. gavin stares up, past trevor’s face and smoggy air, to the wasteland of stars above.

trevor says, “better, huh? i don’t know, i didn’t really like the execution very much. ha, see what i did there? execut—“

there is a gun in his face and gavin’s hand is steady. he does not shake, does not quiver, does not quake in the face of his assailant. well, that was a term for the kid who came up to him and smashed his face against his steering wheel and then apologized for the blood on the interior.

here was the “assailant” who dragged him from his car and decided he wanted to play a game. fair, he said. two sides of a coin, he said. this for that, he said. quid pro quo, he said. revenge, he should’ve said, because gavin hated the talkers.

“you overgrown barmy wanker. you manky arse, bell-ended _tosser_.” gavin sneers, spittle spattering across his lips and onto the wet pavement between them. trevor still crouches, inches from the end of gavin’s gun. he cocks his head, waiting.

“i genuinely like you, you idiot,” gavin spits, struggling to sit up. he gets there, leaning against the license plate of his prized possession. his hand never shakes, never wavers, never moves from the centre of trevor’s forehead. “i wish you would’ve taken this up with someone else.”

“but i admire _you_ ,” trevor mocks. “i thought you needed a little pick-me-up.” and then he leans forward, pressing his forehead to the cold barrel of the gun. he is very courageous for his age and gavin wonders who broke him to be like this. he wonders who had to die to make him this way.

“you’re an asshole,” gavin tonelessly says and shifts his shoulders and gets a knife directly through the wrist.

he _howls_ , the pain not unfamiliar but not familiar. he pushes himself back, trevor’s tiny pierced dagger stuck right in and out of his thin wrist that held the gun. he can’t tell where the dropped gun is anymore, only that he dropped it in his moment of panic and hates himself for how stupid he is.

the pain never ceases and trevor grins, sweet like candy, “you’re too british. i feel like you try too hard. maybe work on that, ey?”

then he stands, and leaves, and gavin promises revenge to that cross stitch of stars hanging above. (but michael will laugh and remind him that he shattered asher’s ankle a week back, and before that, brett dislocated jack’s shoulder into a mangled mess, and before that, gavin stepped on trevor’s little party and broke his nose.

“it’s a cycle,” jack will say, sighing. “get used to it.”)


	7. ryan finds anna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

aleks asks, “do you want me to stay?” and anna can’t fathom why she’d want anyone's help but her own.

“just meet me at the diner for pancakes,” she says and walks away, hands tucked into the pockets of her dress and aleks watches her, wondering when he’ll ever live up to her level of bravery. maybe bravery wasn’t what it was. maybe it was foolishness. or confidence. or pure, undiluted sure sense of self. he doubts there is a doubtful bone in her body.

when she was little, she used to play this game with her father before he left and never came back. he’d say a word, and she’d have to find a word that started with the last letter of his. he’d say _cheesecake_ , ruffling her fluffy brown hair, and she’d say _eel_ , slithering to find to a ticklish spot on him. before long, their words started getting bigger and longer and she’d search for words he’d never know the meaning to, just to see his quizzical smile.

and then he went away and she never got to play the game anymore. she tried to play with herself, but it was never the same. just a streamline of long words that spilled out like a song. it only gave her anxiety now, piecing words together so fast their meanings blurred and she couldn’t remember the start.

she thinks about the game when she traces her way through downtown los angeles. she connects this street to that, and that back alley to that road, and that building oversees that shop, and there is a vantage point on top of that apartment building, and a weakness just under the awning of that storefront. she pieces together the land like words, each ending meeting the same beginning.

it takes a long time before he finds her, and she adds that to the testament to how good she is. she slips through shadows and backyard parking lots and hidden turnpikes and straight away roads and then she turns a corner, the sun dripping like wet paint across the sky, and strides to a halt.

he is not wearing the mask, or face paint, and she almost doesn’t recognize him because his hair is short and his eyes are blue and he’s wearing washed denim jeans. his hands are stuffed into the pockets of his blue and black jacket, biceps stripped with white bands, and that’s how she recognizes him. he is old, she realizes. she wonders when he will retire.

(or die.)

he holds his arm out and she takes it, striding down the busying sidewalk with someone she’s dreamt about killing. he is a polite gentlemen and keeps his knives to himself and she doesn’t even feel the butt of his guns. but anna has faced worse, so she relaxes her shoulders and lets the connecting streets take her far and away.

“we thought you were dead after the explosion,” he says conversationally. “none of our heists were sabotaged.”

she laughs, because he and his people don’t know anything about her or her people. he is maybe ten years her senior and still, as stupid as a child. well, maybe she’s not giving him enough credit. he’s lived longer than her and seen more than her, but she is young and she knows more than he ever will. that was the advantage of being a young woman.

so she laughs because after the explosion, them thinking she was dead was exactly what she wanted them to think. surprise was her strong suit, and they didn’t take surprises very well.

“i was,” she says, thinking about how relaxed she felt. thinking about all the down time she had while the plan played out, while the crews thought she was dead. she remembers all the shows she binged, all the pancakes she ate, all the shit she didn’t do because she was dead. her body will never forgive her, but her mind thanks her every day.

he _hmphs_ , a small sound. “we’re going to crush you, now that you’re alive and well. your boys didn’t do that good of a job without you.”

it’s her turn to _hmph_. “my boys did a better job than your mutts ever could. and i more than invite you to try to quote unquote “crush" me. i’ve spent a lot of time thinking of ways i was going to return the favour.”

the memory of the bite of his teeth under her knuckles is a comforting sensation, along with his crushed windpipe and grunts of exertion and every single time the tip of her knives burrowed into his flesh. she thinks about killing a lot of people, for different reasons, and this man is no exception. his death will bring her the most pleasure. his death will start her own myths and legends.

they stop at a crosswalk, and a deep purple lowrider purrs through the intersection. ryan shifts and she feels the solid feel of his gun against her hip under his jacket, and she turns, smirking because here was another testament to how much better she was than him. here he was, riddled with guns and knives and tiny pieces of weaponry to harm and injury and mutilate and murder and here she was. tiny anna with brown hair and a sweet face and not a single weapon on her body.

(it’s funny, she thinks, because _she_ is the weapon.)

“are you planning on killing me now?” she questions innocently, hoping he’ll try.

he turns, their arms still linked. “do you want me to?”

she smirks.

later, at the cafe, aleks has finished three plates of pancakes and orders two more when he sees her strolling down the darkened street, her long hair splayed around her shoulders like a shawl. he drips honey into his tea as the bell dings overhead and she steadies herself on the booth closest to the door. he doesn’t rise to help her.

“have fun?” he cocks his head while he spins his spoon through his tea, the clinking noise echoing in the still quiet. she smiles weakly at him before slumping into the booth across from him. the shoulder of her navy blue dress is torn, and some hair is matted to her temple and she looks like a warrior, all pretty and dripping in blood and bruises.

they sit together in comfortable silence while she breathes through her nose with long, drawn in breaths and he stirs his tea, watching her. he wonders what he would look like if he had been in a scuffle with the merciless ryan haywood. he bets he wouldn’t have looked as good as her.

“he believed it,” she says after the pancakes comes and aleks licks his lips and pours three different kinds of syrup over his hefty stack. it takes her a moment, but she slowly takes the maple from him and lifts her arm, tilting it over the centre of her own stack. he can’t see the pain on her face, but he thinks it’s in there somewhere.

“of course he did,” aleks scoffs, slicing through fluffy pancake.

“i just . . . thought he would be harder to convince,” her eyebrows furrow as she stares down at the mount of sweet, sticky breakfast. she watches the prongs of her fork sink into the pancake and imagines she’s slicing through flesh. he watches, carefully. “ya know.”

“are you _doubting_ yourself, anna?”

“no,” she snaps and he smirks. “it was just so _easy_. i thought, is it because i’m a girl? is it because i’m younger and weaker and prettier? are they just getting old and pliant? they just fell into our cleverly planned trap without a second look and . . .” she draws off, shaking her head.

aleks leans back, half his pancake stack gone. he wonders what it’s like to be anna, so confident in her own strength and power that she was doubting the intelligence of the other crew. he smiled, just a little, because no one would ever be as strong as her.

“it’s because you’re too good. he comes running at the first sight of you alive and well and probably won’t know we robbed them for a week now. your plan worked, better than you expected. you’re just _better_ than them."

she scoffs and he laughs and nudges her leg under the table, warranting a curse and wince from her. “it’s no fun when they’re dumb.”

(aleks is proud of her, more than just a little.)


	8. jeremy and joe trade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

jeremy and joe have only a handful of things in common.

mainly, they are mostly opposites, sewn from the same cloth but separated and dyed in different tanks. one was jeremy, athletic and built, stout and fine-faced, and the other was joe, thin and gangly, large-nosed and just a little out of shape. each could kick your ass in a fight, but neither were willing to jump on that opportunity at first glances.

they are on two separate sides of the same coin, but they share one similar archetype that clung to their names like a bad case of the flu.

joe says, “you’re like, five feet tall. how you gonna reach me, shortie?” while standing on a platform in the threshold of the factory entrance and jeremy, swathed in a cozy winter jacket, balks.

“we’re basically the same height, you idiot!” he calls back, dropping his hands from his insulated pockets. while he was wearing a bulky bubble jacket, joe was adorned in some jeans and a thin long-sleeve. denver was a place of familiar solace for joe, whereas jeremy had shoved his boston heritage long out of his bodily memory. another something that drew them together but tore their similarities apart in the end. jeremy thought to count them on his hand but it would just be the one.

joe scoffs and bounces down the steps, limbs loose and fluttery. jeremy tenses, finally coming face to face with the other man. he considers his surroundings, and wonders what kind of idiot he was. maybe not an idiot. an entrepreneur of the courageous.

whatever the hellish case of his idiocy was, he kept his ground. he stared across at joe, around the particularly large facial abomination that reminded him of a friend, and tried to remember that his first response should not always be murder. it was somehow engrained inside him, though, and he twitched at the sight of that ugly mug’s friendly grin. (he wondered if joe thought the same, if this was another something that connected their parallels.) (but he doesn't think they're alike on this account.)

“whatever, pipsqueak,” joe says, jokingly, and jeremy is a little confused. was this a drop or not? he wonders if michael was right about james’ friends being known for betrayal. james did know joe the longest; what was to say they didn’t have the same mentality?

joe shakes himself, as if he’s the one whose forgotten. “oh shit, here. rent for the land. we’ll be gone by the end of the day.” he jerks a rumbled, crumpled but thick envelope out from his pocket and holds it out. it hangs, limply, in the air between them while jeremy just stares. first at the envelope and then incredulously back at joe.

“what?” he snaps, self-consciously. he looks down at the envelope. “everything’s there. there’s no bugs, but help yourself.” he jerks it forward once more.

slowly, cautiously, jeremy takes it. “what made you think i was shorter than you in the first place?”

joe stuffs his hands back in his pockets, and jeremy is not the first to wonder how in all hell joe wasn’t dead yet. he smiled too much, and enjoyed life a little too much, and not once had anyone seen him with a weapon. this was something that made them separate. not unique, but different than one another. jeremy was prepared. he liked to know and plan and have things set in motion before the plan even formed in his hands. joe, it seemed, was the complete opposite. again, jeremy wondered how he'd survived this long. but what kept him alive was what kept him apart from jeremy; joe  _loved_ , with all his heart and soul, and by any standard, that should’ve been the thing that killed him.

but here he was, looking sheepish and friendly, in jeans and a shirt in a back lot of a factory in denver. he was handing money over to the enemy without a single word of complaint, without a utter of doubt, without even the slightest notion of betrayal. he smiled, almost apologetically, at jeremy’s words.

“self-defence,” he mutters and jeremy scoffs. “hey, one short man to another, i had to up my game and you know it.”

jeremy just shakes his head, a little amused. he had had his fair share of jokes directed in his direction from friends and strangers, and though he relates to joe (another finger up on the hand of sameness), he doesn’t let it show. joe might not understand the terms of being sworn enemies, but jeremy does.

( _self-defence_.)

without more pleasantries, he reaches into his bubble jacket for his own envelope, cleaner and neater than joe’s. he pulls it out, a little glum to be handing over money to the enemy, but he does it anyways. this time, joe is the hesitant one. he blatantly stares at the envelope, eyebrow raised.

“why the hell would i rig my envelope after you’ve given me yours? we’re not that greedy,” he says, nudging it closer.

“you skimped out on tariffs last year.” joe tonelessly says, suddenly very serious. he nods his chin at the envelope. “you know that if the proper amount isn’t in there, you won’t have a deal next year.”

jeremy rolls his eyes. “for fuck’s sake, i think we can handle without paying you dickheads in tariffs every year. take the money or don’t.” he starts to draw his hand away but stops when joe sighs, and places his own hand up, palm to the cool sky.

“deal, cupcake.”

jeremy sighs, once more for good measure. “i get it. because we’re short.”

“you’re short,” joe says, turning away, thumb coasting over the bills in the envelope. “i’m average-sized.”

(there weren't many things that made joe and jeremy alike.)

(just the jokes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on a prompt on a prompt list from rogerthat-bucky on tumblr


	9. michael stabs james

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

the first time michael stabs james, he feels a hundred times better. it feels like his sinuses awaken, his lifelong headache disperses in the wind like brittle leaves, the throbbing ache in his bones ceases as if it never existed in the first place. when he stabs james, for the very first time, it feels like every single minute he’s been betrayed has been building up to this very moment.

there’s a high after a steal that resonates all around him, and he knows that was his weakness when james appears from the alleyway with brass knuckles and a blisteringly bright smile. michael’s pockets are lined with money and victory and when he sees james slouched in the alleyway's brick mouth, he thinks he’s come to congratulate him. it’s a small, innocent thought.

and then he remembers james’ small blade wedged between his ribs, missing all the important organs, the way they’d grabbled on the steps of the towering church, the way he’d woken up in the back of a speeding van, his crew dizzy and blurry above his head. he’d clung to his wound, remembering james’ fingers around his throat.

he still had the knife, and he wishes he had it on him now, because at the sight of james, slumped and expectant in the alley, michael wants to claw that grin from his face with his fingertips. he wants to tackle him to the ground, shake him into answering him, demand he give him answers for why. why, why, why, why—

“that was my bank,” james says and lets out an exhale that smells like strawberry and liquor. michael stops on the sidewalk, the moon across his leather back, the wind ghosting through his golden curls, his heart creaking in his chest. he thinks about that small pocket knife. he thinks about the stitches in his side.

“not anymore,” michael smirks and lunges. he remembers the name they used to call him, back when he wasn’t affiliated with anyone and no one and only himself. he was an animal, michael jones, and he snarls into the alleyway with teeth and claws and a heart that echoes his hatred.

james uses the leverage to throw michael to the dirtied, hard ground. he lets out a curt laugh and james strides over, his shadow growing and stretching in the darkness. michael turns onto his back, grinning up at his ex-friend and readies himself for violence. he forgets about the stitches. he forgets he had somewhere to be. he forgets everything but the man above him, and the tiny knife tucked into michael's own pocket.

micheal launches himself up and james catches him in the chest with a punch that gusts the wind out of his lungs. but he’s known breathlessness. he doubles over and before james has a chance to punch the back of his head, he takes james by the chest, shoving so hard his own teeth ring when he smashes him against a near dumpster.

james, clever and aware james, takes the opportunity michael was hoping he’d forget, and jabs his knuckles into the healing stitches along michael’s abdomen. he lets out a roar and shoves james again, the dumpster clash ricocheting in the night quiet. james kicks him off, and smashes his fist against michael’s jaw.

the pain awakens him and he chokes on a laugh. “jealous i did something you never will?” he mocks abdominal pain and when james goes to clock him again, michael dodges and slams his fist against james’ sternum. the heavy exhale blows across his face and he smirks.

“what? suck someone off?” james’ voice is choked and strangled, but he manages to dodge michael’s next punch. michael dodges his hand and james spins them, using his own momentum to kick out michael’s knees so he stumbles. james drives his elbow hard into michael’s spine.

he doesn’t collapse, though, and listens for james’ next punch, the air swishing next to his ear. he smirks over his shoulder and kicks out, catching james’ own knees. blood thrums in his veins and drips out from the wound at his side, but he marvels at james on his knees. the masterful thief himself had decided to catch michael now, when power and strength and excitement was lurching through him at every breath in and out, and that was his first and only mistake.

he bares his teeth when he kicks, swinging his sore leg out and into james’ chest. he breathes in deep when james goes back onto his back. weaknesses were precious and important secrets to have and michael knew exactly where all james’ weaknesses were. he watches the other man gape, winded and breathless, on his back like a capsized whale.

he cackles and moves forward, limping a little around the ache in his side. he kicks james’ hip to stop him from scissoring his legs and bends down, peeking at the red, rage-filled expression on his friend’s face. it was hard, sometimes, to remember that james was no longer his friend. (it ached, a little.)

“do it, you pussy,” james spits, glaring around the strands of his hair. michael can see the strain on his face with every movement he tries to make, every single attack he can’t make because of the seizing of his back. michael almost wants to help him. he almost considers not stabbing him.

but then he does it, right where his own scar is going to be, and he marvels in james’ howls. it was a tragedy his back was fucked up. it was a real goddamn tragedy that james would have to sit out for the next couple missions because of this stab wound and his fucked up back.

but michael doesn’t care. he lets out a breath of air and digs the blade in deeper, harder, his fingers nearly brushing the edges of the torn flesh. hot cooper fills the air and michael breathes in, thinking of all the names and titles he was called before he met james. james lets out another scream, more enraged than pain-filled, and michael almost wants to ease his pain.

but micahel doesn’t, because he doesn’t care. he leaves his own pocket knife inside james’ side and stands, marvelling. james’ wasn’t stupid, but he sure looks fucking stupid, broken and bleeding in the alleyway where he was probably planning on stabbing michael again. ha. what an idiot.

michael stalks away, leaving his old friend on the cement, and doesn't feel even a little bad. he feels free and open, and the weight of james’ betrayal flutters after him like a mothy cloak. in a while, he thinks, it’ll disappear and he’ll forget he ever had family in james. in a while, he’ll be more than determined in killing him.

that day could not come fast enough.


	10. a botched ballroom heist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

“check one, check one,”

“i can fucking hear you,” aleks keeps the façade of a smiling gentlemen wandering through the polished, glam crowd, but feels his irritation blistering underneath his skin with every suspicious face. of course there were going to be suspicious faces at a mafia’s high-profile charity ball, but still.

“okay, grouch,” lindsay tsks into the comm in his ear, “trevor’s a little late, so you got a few more minutes of interrogation. anna is . . . by that gigantic swan ice sculpture slash fountain. ooh,” aleks subtly turns his head, surveying the mass of people by the swan sculpture until he sees anna’s brown hair piled atop her head. “and, shocker, brett is still by the bar.”

aleks had been there moments before, when brett had slid him the keycard for the master bedroom’s hidden vault under a glass of vodka. he’d downed it all, without a hiccup, and brett had knocked back his own glass after clinking aleks' empty one. the cool liquid hadn’t made him feel better.

his anxiety had spiked ever since joe had come back, stumbling and bulbously beaten, with a piece of paper nailed to the fleshy part of his arm. it wasn’t the worse that had ever happened, but this was _joe_. if anyone had stooped this low with joe, then they weren’t fucking around. it’s what made aleks’ skin crawl. no one fucking touched joe.

he wouldn’t put anything past those psychopaths, though, and it had only heightened his paranoia. he was headed into a lion’s den, a wallflower drifting in the wind, and now he had to keep an extra eye on some other crew’s asshats? he should’ve taken another shot of russian water.

he’s torn from his thoughts as heavy static erupts on the other end of the comm. he takes a flute of champagne and hides his wince between a sip. he eyes a pretty blonde woman eyeing him up as he waits for his own idiots to stop whatever the hell it was they were doing.

“—goddamn, lindsa—!” aleks clears his throat and heads in the direction of the woman. “for fuck’s sake, you got an eye on bertagnolli’s wife? if she’s here, he’s going to be somewhere close.” james’ voice is louder than linsday’s and this time, aleks can’t stifle the wince. “wait, what the fuck are you doing? that’s his wife, you dipshit!”

“good evening,” he purrs in russian, butting an older, thinner looking italian man out of the way when he takes the blonde woman’s hand. bertagnolli’s wife, valeriya, wasn’t part of aleks’ propositioned mission. anna was to distract bertagnolli and aleks was to slip through the guests, up to the master bedroom, and to the vault. but . . .

but his nerves were stretched like threads about to snap, and every moment they are going through the plan was every moment they could be ambushed. he thought about how trevor, usually so pointedly on time, no matter the traffic, was late and how badly beaten joe was and how seamless the mission was going so far. he didn’t want to jinx anything, but he couldn’t get the paranoia out of his head.

valeriya, born and raised in russia, brightened at the sound of his words. it was obvious how she felt, a dipped red soviet in the middle of hundreds of her husband’s loyal italian family. they were not too different, but he could recognize uncomfortable pressure anywhere. plus, aleks was dreadfully handsome and valeriya looked very thirsty.

“he’s gone rogue!” lindsay spurts and from where he stands, he can look over bertagnolli’s wife’s head to see anna subtly turn on her heels and dagger a stare directly at him.

“it’s a pleasure to speak with a legend,” he continues in russian, angling himself so that he secludes her more against the flow and movement of the fancily dressed crowd at his back. she beams, dazzled by his russianness and handsomeness, and doesn’t bother to search for her easily angered and jealous husband.

“oh, _me_? i’m nothing but a wife,” she is sheepish and he takes advantage of it by grinning and fluently speaking both their native language. it doesn’t distract him from the roiling nerves in the pit of his stomach, but he works the way he’s worked since he was old enough to understand money and violence. he just hopes his team gets where he’s going with this.

“you are an icon,” he emphasizes while james takes the comm again and nearly shouts, “the plan, dude! i remember specifically saying don’t go for the wife. you’re going to have to get the card to anna somehow. goddamn, you’re dumb, dude.”

valeriya, flustered, blinks up at him. “oh, you give me too much credit. i did what every other woman would do in my situation. i prospered. well, you know what it’s like to start a life around prejudice,” she gives him a look, russian to russian, and he folds his arms behind his back, because he wasn’t going to give anna the card. she was going to get it from him.

he feels her whisper by, plucking the card from his palm in the folds of her gossamer dress. “you are truly a legend,” he says, while static buzzes in his ear again. the nerves in his stomach tighten, readying for something his senses can’t perceive yet. “you gave many of my relatives hope for a better future.”

“oh—“

and then aleks is punched in the face and it clicks in his head when he sees a flash of golden curls and prominent freckles in the crowd while he stumbles for footing. james shouts in his hear, something about _trevor_ and _ambush_ , and aleks feels mighty fucking smug. he straightens himself before eadric bertagnolli can grab him by the collar, his wife’s surprised protests a balance to the crowd’s surprised gasps.

“piece of shit fucking scum,” eadric says, shaking out his meaty fist as he glowers at aleks. he searches quickly for jones, but the sneak is gone. out of the corner of his eye, he sees brett standing at the edge of the curious crowd, but subtly shakes his head.

“think you can fuck my wife and get away with it? who are you anyways, _comrade_?” he mocks nasally, pointing a sausage finger at him. they stand in the middle of a circle, aleks as the alleged cheater of the glamorous and coveted valeriya and eadric as the mobster whose wife was being screwed behind his back. it was a good tactic, he had to admit. he didn’t appreciate being fucked on a mission, but it was good.

aleks holds up his hands, surrendering though he knew every movement he made was futile. geoff’s pathetic crew was there, and they’d sabotaged his mission and now he had to think about how he was going to get the hell out of this mess without giving anything away about the going-ons upstairs in the master bedroom vault. he cursed; his instincts were right after all.

eadric slurs something in italain that aleks graciously understands, and lunges forward. aleks curses, once more, and spins out of the huge man’s way. eadric was nearly busting out of the seams of his silver striped suit, which was an advantage for aleks because he’d trained himself to fight hand-to-hand in the tightest suit possible. he was leaner and thinner, so he slips through the crowd easily. he doesn’t have the goddamn time to be fighting an enraged mobster husband.

“tell me anna opened the vault,” he breaks off from the crowd and books it for the stairs. he hears eadric’s roar of anger ricochet off marble walls and the chandelier ceiling as he takes the stairs two at a time. he doesn’t bother with pleasantries when he sails through the hallways, passing goons in the same tight suits.

“i don’t know, the comms are down, dude,” james shouts, sounding distracted as he speaks. “brett ran off when he saw haywood. i’m sure jones was the one who whispered in bertagnolli’s ear. you have to get out of there, the italians will be on us in—“

aleks crashes through the door to the master bedroom, fury boiling in his insides. the room is just as large as the scouts said it was, and it barely takes him a second to take in the layout before he sees anna held against gavin free’s chest as a human shield, gold gun pressed against her temple. blood seeps down her bare leg, though, probably the result of a bullet skimming her thigh.

“oi, you got here fast. i didn’t even have enough time to kill her and leave her brains spattered across the empty vault for you to find,” free shifts, moving closer to the hidden wall that’s open now, the small vault inside unlocked and filled to the near brim with stacks of cash.

“she can live, now, i guess,” he shrugs, grinning maliciously. “i just wanted the cash.”

“plot twist, i want the cash,” aleks remarks, and slowly shuts the door behind him. james and lindsay are little voices in his ear, surely because of the transmitter in the corner of the room, fritzing their connection. “do you freaks have no respect for another man’s steal?”

free pretends to think, tapping the butt of the gun against his chin before returning it, harshly, to anna’s temple when he says, “not really. i’ll give you the chance to take the bird and leave, though. all you gotta do is stand here and take the blame. i mean, we’re ensuring you do anyways, but it would help if you didn’t resist.”

aleks laughs and jerks his chin at anna. “you must’ve tripped or something to get caught by this moron,” and then he strides to the bar in the corner of the room, close to the hidden wall, and finds himself a glass of vodka. he fills it to the brim.

free yawns when aleks glances back. “can we get this over with, please? i’ll get the cash, you get your friend, and we can each go our separate ways, happy and full.”

“i don’t know about that, because i personally put a lot of effort into scouting this guy out and ya know, i wouldn’t feel that good about just handing you the money,” he shrugs, taking another swig. “isn’t there a thievery code of conduct somewhere? don’t you dipshits respect anything?”

“um, probably the economy,” free shifts again, shoving the gun so hard into anna’s temple that she inhales sharply. aleks takes inventory of her body, the way free had one arm tight across her chest, entrapping her arms, the way her left leg seemed to be completely immobilized and how strangled she looked.

aleks downs his glass and sets it on the counter. then he moves closer to free and anna, anger still running a marathon through his veins. “you nailed a note to my friend saying you were bored, and then you ambush my other friend, most likely injuring him, and then you sic a mobster on me for something i’d probably do, but didn’t in this case, and then you hold my other friend at gunpoint and expect me to just give you the money.”

“yeah, pretty much,” free shrugs. “it would be awesome if you could empty the vault, too. i’m kind of in a rush.”

aleks thinks about brett and ryan fighting somewhere in a hallway, he thinks about bertagnolli going room to room in search of his wife’s alleged lover, he thinks about joe and trevor being hurt for no reason other than boredom, he thinks about the vault of money he was going to use his cut to spend on a new coffee machine. and then he walks backwards, takes up the empty glass and chucks it at free’s head.

“oi! the fuck—“

silently, anna elbows free in the stomach, lunging free, but free is just as fast and pulls the trigger inches away from her scalp. she screams and drops, but aleks plows hard into free, sending the two of them crashing against a side table covered in decorated vases with flowers and china. porcelain shatters around them while they grapple for the gold encrusted gun.

there was a reason aleks liked to hand-to-hand combat people bigger and larger than him. with them, he had a chance because he was lithe and lean and swift on his feet. but gavin is exactly like him, if not more gangly and noodle-limbed. so aleks crashes them into the side table, and free squirms away with nothing more than a punch to the side.

“you’re a—“ aleks is cut off by a foot smashing into his face. he balks, blood bursting across his suit and then glowers. free clambers back towards the space before the open hidden wall, aleks claws for his legs, and anna, enraged, kicks away the gun, skirting somewhere near the bed. blood pours down her head like carrie at prom, and when she rises to her feet, the rage is palpable.

“second gun,” free remarks and yanks free another gun from his waistband. he rises, pointing it at anna, and then swivels fast to catch aleks before he can lunge again. “we just wanted the money but now i just want to kill you.”

“get in line,” aleks scoffs.

“there won’t be a fucking line when—“

and then, second surprise of the night, the door crunches and cracks open, and brett kicks _through_ the solid mahogany, toting someone else’s gun and a ripped suit that goes handsomely with his bloody, scrapped and torn body. “holy shit, you talk so goddamn much.”

“what the fuck is wrong with you people?” free exclaims, whipping the gun in the direction of brett, and aleks takes his chance and tackles the stretched man to the ground. he twists, lands on his back and aleks smashes his head, hard, against the hardwood twice before he’s confident the british man is unconscious.

anna falls to her own knees, a keen crawling from between her lips and brett stalks inside, leaving a trail of blood and scraps of clothing. aleks stares for a moment before bursting into laughter and climbing off free. god, they were a bunch of meth-heads! so much for subtlety!

“what happened to haywood and jones? and our lovely host mr. bertagnolli?” aleks moves to the vault while brett, exhausted and wounded, falls next to anna. they lean against each other, both clutching bloody, gruesome external wounds. while brett talks, aleks goes about emptying the small vault.

“while you struggled to take down one man—“ a pointed look to free, smattered on the floor like a starfish. “—i single-handedly put bullets in all of bertagnolli’s men—who, by the way, was calmed down by several of his cousins—and got in a fist-fight with haywood. jones got away.”

aleks, chuckling, shoves bundle after bundle into free’s such graciously left behind duffel until there’s only one stack left. he thinks about how smug he felt about his suspicions, about how nervous he’d felt before that. he thinks about his beaten friends, about every single wound they’d have to stitch back together and mend. he thinks about the repercussions of this almost failed mission, and how he can never show his face to the italian community ever again.

“assholes,” he smirks and peels one hundred from the stack and tucks it into the collar of free’s shirt. he gives him a kick for good measure, and goes to help anna to her feet.

“are you gonna thank me for interrupting at the most opportune time?” brett says, arm slung around aleks’ shoulder, the other clutched to his chest.

aleks snorts. “no. we could’ve handled it.”

“i would’ve been carrying corpses right now.”

“psh. i’m always a dead man walking.”


	11. slippery hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

(aleks will say, _it’s been a really stressful day_ and james will just look at them and say, _he’s got a condition_ and wave his hands like that was explanation enough.)

aleks has been casing this guy for four days now and the first piece of goddamn intel he gets is that the guy likes french dip roast beef sandwiches from a vendor outside a shady looking library. aleks isn’t sure how a library can look shady, but it does. and who parks their vending station outside a shady looking library anyways? was that legal? he doesn’t think it’s legal.

four days and he gets that the guy like roast beef sandwiches. he wakes up every morning (try; afternoon) and wanders about his single-story house in the suburbs so far away from aleks’ own home that he has to wake up extra early just to drive down there. and he waits, watching this jack-off waltz across his house in underwear and nothing else. you’d figure a criminal at least got some exercise, but this guy would be proving you wrong.

four days and aleks is determined to get something _else_. anything. a secret stash of porn, a couple rolled bills under the floorboards, a gun. god, aleks would give anything to come face to face with a gun if he ever came up to this guy. then he could do something with all this wasted time, make it up with something solid and proof. no one knew how this guy worked, how he tied into the other gangs, how he made an impact at all, and aleks was more than inclined to figure it out.

the blazing sun was an obstacle he thought he could overcome, but some part of his skin still remembers the bitter feel of cold winter and he _sweats_. aleks was a very attractive sweater, so he wasn’t too concerned, but his fingertips were leaving marks on his phone and he had to wrinkle his nose every time his sunglasses slipped a little on the slope of his nose. how in god’s name this guy walked everywhere for eight hours, aleks would never be able to tell you.

but he was an expert in the art of following without being seen, and he slips through the lazy day los angeles crowds with a secondhand ease that came with the job. he ponders storefronts as he goes, updating his highly popular instagram, and even has time to stop for a glass of lemonade all while keeping a firm hawk eye on the guy in the red coat. red coat? guy must be a natural born angeleno to be wearing a red coat in this _sweltering_ heat.

aleks watches from afar as the guy stops at his regular stops. he takes the bus from his place to downtown los angeles and waltzes immediately to the vendor selling the french dip roast beef sandwiches. on day two, after the guy had gone to this supposedly amazing sandwich stop for the second day in a row, aleks stopped and ordered the same. the vendor, hefty and thickly french, had tried to swindle an extra five dollars out of him if he wanted a dollop of guacamole between his meat slices. so he’d politely never returned there again.

(sandwich wasn’t even that good.)

after the sketchy library and sandwich vendor, guy in the red coat takes his time wandering deeper into the dazzling glass jungle, head craned to see everything as if he’s never been here everyday before. sometimes, his route varies, but he always ends up going down the same connecting streets. he avoids alleyways and underground parking entrances and stairwells leading down to smelly bars.

he walks, and aleks sweats, thirsty and bored, and _finally_ —fucking finally!—guy in the red coat turns down a road he’s never been down before. aleks perks, attention spiking like the blazing sun right above him, and rolls his shoulders, getting ready for something new to memorize and obsess over. maybe the guy has a fetish for walking himself into boredom.

the next street isn’t special or unusual. aleks knows a taco place down there he sometimes frequented when he was high and along this side of the street there was a bookstore with a hidden exit that lead to a shady but incredibly fair betting ring. the guy walks past both, eyeing something in his hand, until he turns down another street—an alleyway.

_four days was goddamn worth it_ , he thinks and speeds up, turning his disinterested stroll to a purposeful pace. he shoves his phone into his pocket, fixes his slipping sunglasses and waits half a second before turning into the alleyway.

it’s empty, but his stroll never wavers. he continues down, past a dumpster and then suddenly there’s a gun in his face ( _he called it_ ) and he grins toothily. “the elusive lawrence sonntag, come out of hiding for a sandwich, predictable stroll through the city and a gunfight,” aleks’ heart is thundering with adrenaline and excitement and he feels a little childish to be so excited about being caught.

lawrence sonntag is large and broad-faced, hiding behind large rimmed glasses that magnify his suspicious, narrowed stare. his gun, level with aleks’ mouth, never wobbles. underneath the red leather jacket, he’s wearing some graphic tee and jeans that roll up at the ankles, exposing red matching sneakers. he doesn’t look like a criminal mastermind, but neither did aleks.

it feels like he’s being examined underneath the quiet, tense stare and he waits, hands stuffed into hot pockets, wondering if this bullet will find a home in his skull.

then sonntag grumbles, “how was it predictable?”

aleks snorts. “any idiot with a map can trace the lines to make a figure eight. you did the gangster ’s,' though, which i appreciate,”

sonntag works his mouth before saying conversationally, “are you really russian?”

“da,” aleks says and then widens his eyes when he sees sonntag’s finger twitch. he flinches, ducking into a crouch while the hissing bullet zips through the space where his head used to be. he lets out a rumbling laugh before he extends from his panicked crouch and lunges hard into sonntag’s abdomen.

despite aleks’ propelling movement, sonntag falters backward but doesn’t go down. he smashes the hilt of the gun into the back of aleks’ head and he hisses, shoving away. he stands, glaring, rubbing the back of his neck and snaps, “the fuck you made of?”

“poor attitude,” sonntag says and aims the gun again. but aleks flicks his wrist and rips the gun from his grip and points it back at him. sonntag simply raises an eyebrow and mocking puts up his hands. “what’re you made of, alcohol and distasteful choice of wardrobe?”

“wha—“ aleks looks down at his shirt—space and cats—and glares coldly back at sonntag. “you’re half right.”

then aleks uses the barrel of the gun as make-shift brass knuckles and punches sonntag right in the nose. glass shatters, broken pieces spilling down his face and before they tinkle across the cement, he responds by punching aleks in the face with actual brass knuckles.

aleks is very much familiar with fighting with his hands. he forgets about the gun and roars forward, fist itching for flesh but only meets the hot red leather of a forearm. sonntag reaches for him, hands knotting in the soft material of his space and cat tank top and he wrenches, pulling aleks forward and spins him, throwing his lighter body hard against the blazing hot steal of the dumpster.

he buckles, gun skirting away but he doesn’t even remember he’d had it in the first place. he smirks, blood blotting out his teeth and as sonntag nears him, he whips out his legs in an attempt at a prone scissor kick. he catches the bigger man in the knees and it’s his turn to buckle, collapsing with an _oof_.

then aleks kicks again, bracing himself on the scalding heat of the dumpster and shoves both his feet hard against sonntag’s chest. he flies backward, but lands inches from the gun. aleks remembers it now, loud and clear, and he scrambles upward, knowing his ducking manoeuvre won’t work this time. he rushes forward just as sonntag grasps the gun and—  
  
—it fumbles from his hand, slipping out like a wet bar of soap. aleks doesn’t stop to consider that he is definitely the reason for that slip-up and stomps his foot hard into sonntag's throat. he bores down hard, pressing with a sliver of his might until sonntag’s clawing hands on his leg reminds him to let up a little.

“it’s nice to officially meet you,” he waves, “i’m aleks. it’s hot so i apologize for the sweaty gun,” then he shrugs and presses harder until the man in the red leather coat goes unconscious. he looks pointedly at the gun, glaring. “it’s _hot_.”

when he rifles through sonntag’s pockets, he finds a slip of paper with an address on it. aleks looks up, apartments on either side, a connecting fire escape just at the end of the alleyway. the name on the slip belongs to someone aleks vaguely remembers, someone who might’ve fucked him and his crew in one way or another in the past. he contemplates his options before his stomach growls.

(when aleks retells the story to his friends, he leaves out the part about the sweaty palms. but james will lean closer, mocking frown consuming his face. he’ll ask, “but how’d you get the upper hand? if sonntag was bigger than you and you were on your ass—“

“i got it back, alright? dude, you’re missing the point—“

“duude,” james laughs, extending the word. he cackles, “that’s a condition, dude. eww!”)


	12. the russian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

it’s not like they _forget_ he’s russian. they all have histories and backstories and tiny tidbits of fun little facts that make their crime lives so much more interesting, but aleks of cow chop is so . . . subtly good at being a citizen of america that geoff’s crew just forgets that he wasn’t in the first place.

(was he even a citizen of america? was that something they could pin against him? well, there was the whole thing with gavin, but that was sorted. right?)

the first time aleks screams something in russian, ryan is taken aback by how fucking _cool_ that looked. the young man had slid around the corner risky-business-style, goddamn _flamethrower_ in his hands, hands and forearms drenched in dark blood, face contorted into an utter infuriated mask of rage and screaming in a language ryan couldn’t identify around a garbled mouthful of blood.

he was too busy lunging out of the way, stack of cash going up in a raging inferno at his back that lit the wooden crates beneath the fluttering stacks of bills. he wonders if aleks had even seen him in the first place, because ryan stood, secluded in the shadows, poised for an attack against a flamethrower, but none came. aleks, roaring blindly in the bristling loudness of cracking bullets, just whipped his fiery weapon around until the room was too hot and smoky for ryan to stand.

it doesn’t click, really, until weeks later, jeremy storms into the penthouse, shucking off his bullet-riddled jacket and then the hardened vest underneath. he’s muttering something ryan can’t hear until he catches the word ‘soviet’ and he remembers the last time he’d seen aleks.

“wait—what did he do?” ryan calls from the couch, putting his knife down to listen for jeremy’s voice in the kitchen.

“how that motherfucker gets ahold of genuine russian-made bullets i’ll never fucking know,” his hat flies across the island and ryan listens to the fridge being wrenched open. “asshole doesn’t even have the decency to insult me in english!”

they all _know_ he’s russian. it’s more of a matter of aleks being so fucking good at his job that he never lets it slip. it aggravates ryan, who remembered everything there was to know about everyone, to have been tricked for an evening over the birthplace of his enemy. now that he thinks about it, he remembers hearing about the kid who smuggled himself across the border at sixteen after the death of his mother left him vengeful. the kid who had to teach himself english just to panhandle for food, the kid who had engrained it in his body that if he wanted to get revenge, he’d have to clip his accent and bear the star-spangled banner.

(that’s a backstory if he’s ever heard one.)

there is another time ryan catches aleks’ brute vowels, the curtness of his voice that sounds scratchy and thick when he speaks. he’s fighting with every last ounce his strength in jack and geoff’s iron glad arms as they drag him through the muddy sludge, heavy rain blanketing them all into pillars of wetness. the only reason ryan hears aleks’ screaming, wrath-filled voice is because he’s _relishing_ in it.

michael, of course, is responsible for the near annihilation of james wilson and gavin takes lovely pleasure in beating trevor’s face into a pulp and treyco and matt take particular precautions in keeping down anna the spy and they think they’re all lucky brett is already in prison. but _aleks_.

(each and every member of the fake ah crew remembers the distinct laughter aleks used on them when he took his time in destroying them. there was the time at the skatepark for micahel, and the time at the hospital for ryan, and the time on the bridge with gavin, and the cockpit of a flying airplane for jack. they all remember the way he’d _laughed_.)

“i didn’t know the soviet in you came out when you’re really, really sad,” michael taunts, shaking out his bloody hands and shoving the wet curls out of his face. jack and geoff throw aleks against the cement wall of the very same room they’d held him in what feels like eons ago. he crashes to the floor but there’s enough life in him to try and escape.

so ryan catches him before he can run for the door and he plunges a long, slender knife he plucked off anna’s body hard into aleks’ waist. he howls, collapsing at their feet, garbled screams tearing themselves out from his throat.

“we’ll dispose of the others,” geoff says, loud enough for aleks to hear, and only ryan sees the tiny, gleeful grin under geoff’s moustache when aleks bellows. he tries to pick himself up before ryan kicks his chest, throwing him onto his back.

“play nice,” geoff snickers, and ryan wonders which memory of aleks laughing at him he has. but he twists away, disappearing down the cement hallway and michael is the last to leave, a malicious grin pinning itself to his cheeks.

“y-you fuck—“ aleks spits, bloody spittle dripping down his cheek. he clutches the bloody wound at his waist, blood leaking from between his fingers. he is almost unrecognizable under the stark florescent lights, and the blood staining his face like paint, and the gnarly bulbous bruising of his left eye and mouth. and yet he still manages to glare perfectly.

ryan grins and says, “i thought you were more creative than that,” in russian and the silence is palpable.

aleks never breaks eye contact with him as pushes himself up until he sits along wall he was thrown against. he sits, legs sprawled before him, hand pressed loosely against the knife wound. he stares at ryan, and ryan feels himself growing, blossoming under the smugness that coats his skin, floods his veins. he cannot help but smirk.

and aleks, for his part, manages to snicker exceptionally well for a bruised throat. he hisses something quick and fast in russian, the syllables rolling smooth off his tongue. ryan retains his smirk, but inwardly, he sifts through the long slur of words and cannot come up with a single translation.

“exactly,” aleks laughs again, the english coming from his mouth sounding self-taught. “i repeat: you. fuck.”

“you think the russians would pass on some form of loyalty to their kids, but i see your mother died before she could teach you that lesson,” he says it in russian, slow and methodic, but it doesn’t have the same impact because aleks grins.

“pretty fucked up you’d attack my heritage,” aleks says it in russian again, but this time, he says is so slowly, it sounds as though he’s speaking through molasses. ryan understands his words this time, and aleks’ grin never wavers. “and butcher my first language so badly.”

“do you think your friends are going to understand why we kill them if i spoke in russian? they are your _family_ , right?”

“now you’re just being racist,” aleks laughs, the english words piecing themselves together like magnets between his teeth. ryan grinds his jaw together. “w-what’re you gonna do, mr. psychopath? finally kill us all? one by one?”

but ryan can’t let the russian thing go. he says, each word reflecting his weeks of practise, “yes. it’s been too long with your pathetic ‘ _crew_ ’ ruining this goddamn city even worse than we have. i’m just glad we’re killing you before you get to kill us,”

aleks makes a sound, half snort and cough. blood spurts from his lips and nose, dripping down his wet face to his bucking chest. ryan wanders closer, wondering how much aleks remembers home, the one with his mother and a world without crime entrenched in his veins. he wonders what russian-aleks would think of american-turned-aleks. he wonders if he’s proud of himself.

it churns his stomach and he crouches before the younger man, cocking his head. he admires what he’s done, the masterpiece he’s helped create out of a skilled crime-lord. blood coagulates, dries, thickens and collects with saliva. there are bulbous bruises, gaping, gushing wounds, poking broken bones and a battlefield of mismatched scars over every inch of the russian. he considers this work of art, this masterful mosaic and wonders if he can do even better with his friends.

“you’re an disloyal piece of shit,” he clenches a hand onto aleks’ knee, and squeezes around the shattered bone. a scraggly, worn-out yell rips from his mouth but ryan speaks around it, “every single one of your people is here, beaten and dying, and all you can do is laugh. when does it get old, marchant?”

after he collects his breath, the pants quaking his entire body, he shakily stutters, “y-you understand n-nothing. w-w-we did everything and you caught us at our weakest. you’re _cowards_.” he says these words in russian, each word piecing themselves together under his slow, weak droll. ryan watches, entertained.

(here was the russian.)

ryan shrugs, “sure. we do what we do to survive. you do everything you do because you think you can. you’re children. you’re spiteful morons who don’t know up from down because you think you own it all.” he isn’t aware how harsh his words are coming out.

“live a little, _ded_ ,” he wrenches out of ryan’s grip and sneers, cold and fast and when he speaks, his russian words are so thick and almost inaudible. but ryan listens, ears straining, when aleks hisses, “none of you every learn. whaddya say about russian winters?”

ryan would’ve killed aleks in a heartbeat if every single word that came out of his mouth didn’t sound totally fucking cool as shit. ryan respected aleks. he did. he spent days trying to rifle through the inner workings of this young man’s mind and always came up with nothing. every single one of them were unpredictable, impulsive, reckless and oblivious to the world around them. he could see no patterns in their operations, no niches in their missions, no hiccups in their heists. they were icons, these kids, and the hunger to quash them is _tangible_.

he finally stands after a long moment of quiet contemplation and turns, striding back towards the door. but he stops, hand on the lock and says (in perfect, clear english), “do you have any last words for your family?”

ryan doesn’t turn, but he hears aleks groan, a low sound at the back of his throat. he listens to this noise, savouring it.

and then he utters dryly, “tell them to meet me at the pancake place. i’m buying.”

after that, ryan doesn’t forget aleks is russian. it sort of lingers, replaying at the back of his mind. it’s a few weeks later and he can’t recall what the russian word for “pathetic” is and every time he tries to practise, he finds himself fumbling, remembering how aleks had mockingly slowed his words so he could understand.

(he’ll always be so fucking cool in ryan’s mind. he won’t hesitate next time the opportunity to kill him arises, but he admits he’ll be a little bummed.)


	13. barn blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told in a non-linear fashion, but all chapters tie into one another eventually

the sentence that leaves aleks’ mouth the most is “i didn’t know that was flammable.” 

(james’ll just look at him like he’s the biggest goddamn idiot on the planet and won’t say anything over how _moronic_ his best friend is.)

it might just be his catchphrase now, his go-to one-liner after every explosion, fiery rain of shrapnel, uncontrollable inferno, and blistering wildfire of hot cinders. he’ll cackle, just like that tool shed or electrical transformer he lit on fire to see what would happen. that was a lot of his 'accidents.’ he’ll just do it to see if he _can_ , just to see what will happen. james would’ve called it morbid or psychopathic, if he didn’t single-handedly instigate some of those explosions and blazing bonfires.

but when aleks suddenly, impulsively, sets trevor on fire, he can barely get his aleks-marchant-famous-catchphrase out because he’s laughing so hard. they had crates full of fire extinguishers on stand-by for a reason, and this wasn’t the first time trevor had been set on fire, but it’s the first time that everyone sort of looks at aleks like he’s actually the stupidest person they’ve ever met. trevor shakes foam out of his hair and looks sadly down at the ruined scraps of his flowery button-up.

and it doesn’t stop there. aleks never thinks about _topping_ himself. he doesn’t think about going above and beyond, about what he’s going to set on fire next. it’s all spontaneous, all spur of the fiery moment, the urge springing out of nowhere whenever a lighter is within arm’s reach. okay, he’d lie if he didn’t see that stacks of hay as they were flying through the small towns of california and think about what would happen if he just threw his cigarette into the dry grass. he’d be _lying_ if he said he didn’t think about how truly _bad_ it would be if he stuck his hand in a fireplace. just to see what would happen.

(of course, the couch was just the beginning of his never-ending fiery escapades. of course he had to _top_ himself. who would he be if he didn’t?)

everyone will remember the barn fire because aleks won’t shut the fuck up about it. “i didn’t know it was _that_ flammable,” he’ll say, wistfully thinking back to a few days ago where he’d just . . . lit a barn on fire. they won’t give him credit because, okay, he might’ve saved their asses and okay, he might’ve saved dozens of lives, but he didn’t have to go that far. he never had to go _that_ far. but of course, aleks always went _that_ far.

their mission had been simple. stake out the barn where military grade weapons were being kept, wait for the right opening and then take it all. it’s not like they didn’t have their own military-grade weapons, but theirs were so last month and they’d already gotten their asses handed to them by the fake crew, their weapons so much better. (that was hard to admit.) so when the huge cache crosses their informants' radar, their interest is piqued.

it had gone well for the first four minutes before trevor tripped and knocked his shoulder against a top-heavy stack of wooden crates and tipped the whole stack against the others, spilling them like dominos. james had stared, a little in awe at how tragically horrible they were, before yanking trevor back by the collar, jerking him into cover while the hailstorm of wasted bullets rained down around them.

the barn was one of those long ones, with dark green sides and spotless red shingles and a circle window at the top where the attic was. though there was no house in sight and the barn stretched out large in the middle of a wheat field that whistled and waved in the light wind. it was perfect for hiding, and even the inside of the barn was quartered into stables, pens and areas where operations might’ve happened. so when trevor tripped, collapsing the towers of boxes against one another, james had more than enough space to hide against the bullets.

“oh my god, sorry—“ trevor muttered, choking a little on laughter against the back of a wooden separator between stalls. james glared and looked around for the rest of his friends. there was the back of joe’s cap across the aisle from him and trevor, and asher poking his head up from some of the pig pens and aleks, a little ways up, returning fire against the guys they came to steal from.

it would’ve been easy extraction if aleks didn’t have black market bang snaps infused with tiny explosives that burned fiercely on contact. he chucked them wildly into the fray and joe jogged through the spilt boxes and danced to aleks’ side, getting a better angle. james motioned the same for asher, and he and trevor quickly made their way around the edge of the barn, working around tall stacks of military-grade weapons that would soon be theirs.

sooner, if aleks hadn’t thrown one of his stupid bang snaps into an open case of ammunition and let loose more stray bullets into a hectic, crazy ricochet of them bouncing and popping all over the barn. he screamed for everyone to duck, but the buyers weren’t so lucky and the few that were still alive went down, riddled with bullets from not a single goddamn gun. james wouldn't give that miracle to aleks. not when he was dumb.

so they had to wait until every last bullet flew from its home because of the spark from the bang snap and wedged themselves into pen doors, wooden walls or boxes of their newfound merchandise. james simmered the entire time because this was going to get out and this was going to inevitably lead back to them and though he’d be able to handle a surprise attack, he didn’t necessarily want to. aleks smirked and laughed at the wreckage they’d caused and this is one of those times that james wants so smack him.

but finally— _finally_ —when the rain of bullets finally trickles off and ends, aleks is the first one to stand among the remains (human and otherwise) and laugh at the monumental miracle he’s not going to shut up about for weeks. he high-fives joe, who goes to ruffle through the gun cases and throws finger guns at james, who gives him the finger in return. it wasn’t the worst he’s ever done (not yet, of course) and he got the job done, so james can’t complain as much as he would’ve liked to. they had to search through the havoc of the demolished crates and metal, bullet-tinged cases but they got their win.

“we’re done here, right?” aleks says, hours later when the sun dips down, low across the waving stalks of wheat that have witnessed more violence and illegal activity than their predecessors. it had taken two large armoured vehicles that the original owners had brought with them and joe’s stolen mercedes to haul every single weapon of military grade out and back to their warehouse. all that was left are empty crates, bullet-ridden walls and boxes of feed and dead bodies.

“no shit,” james sighed, running a hand over his head. he added, “warn me next time you decide to fucking go in guns blazing when the plan was to—“

he turns, torn from the sight of the trucks disappearing into the horizon, to see the tail end of aleks’ match go flying, slowly, through the air and into the dead grass at their feet.

“nice fucking job—“ he manages out before the sound is sucked out from his lungs as the barn is engulfed. it goes with a solid whoosh, inhaling like a gigantic beast. but it lets out no wail, just a soft, blisteringly hot crackle and sigh that lights up the entire night sky. he has to jerk aleks back, the smug awe on his face making james question his sanity for an unfathomable time.

they watch, in silence, as the fire trails through the grass and up the rotten pieces of wood that make up the bottom of the barn. it’s like a whisper at first, no sound but the slithering flames that greedily take up the oxygen all around them. but it catches fast, old wood meeting hot, excruciatingly heat, going faster and higher as the wind curls its fingers around the flames, urging it hotter and upward.

soon, that shockingly red roof gets tickled from the bottom before the crunching starts, loud booming crackles erupting into the air that signal james further back into the shadow of this blaze. aleks throws his hands up, wild and exuberant, laughing as the barn grows fiercer and larger, sending flaming pieces of ash down onto their shoulders. they listen to the crashes inside, the _timber_! of collapsing beams and failing supports. glass shatters and awful smell takes the air, making aleks choke around his chuckles.

“dude,” james sighs and starts back towards the road, figuring aleks could find his way back by the light of the destruction he created. james doesn’t turn around, but if he did, he’d see aleks staring up at that wildfire of his own creation and be mesmerized by the ruins. he’d seen his friend’s fingers twitching, the matchbox in his pocket burning eagerly. he won’t see aleks step forward, the agonizing heat having no effect on him as he spreads his hand out for the inferno.

(to the driver who picks aleks up later, thumb smudged in ash and dark shoulders lightly feathered with cinders, he’ll say, “i didn’t know it was _that_ flammable,” and it’ll look like the fire took up residence in his eyes.)

(next month, he’ll eye the desert as they race by and james’ll see that light in his eyes and have to remind him. “start with brett’s cactus garden first,” and brett’ll snap,”no! you stay away from my succulents, you goddamn hellion,” and aleks will laugh, thinking of the world ablaze beneath his fingertips.)


End file.
